


Whip

by Smilla



Series: The Character Bleed Series [2]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Character Bleed, M/M, Season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:23:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1532432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilla/pseuds/Smilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An aftertaste of scotch in Dean's mouth gives Jensen a flash of amber liquid and cold glass like a memory Jensen doesn't remember he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whip

Dean goes away over winter hiatus. Eventually. It's a slower process. Jensen sheds Dean's clothes and he sheds his posture and his accent, leaves them all in Vancouver together with the cold weather. But for a few more days after shooting wraps up, Dean keeps walking in Jensen's shadow like a shaky ghost. One morning, Jensen looks in the mirror and there's only his face staring back. He ignores how bereft he feels, scratches his scruff that's more of a beard by now, following the contours of his jaw to the scar Dean has under his left ear. He stops before his fingers reach the spot. It's silly, of course the scar isn't there. The mirror returns his grimace. "Damn you," he says out loud. Then with a whisper, "I didn't tell you to leave."

For the next few days he busies himself with a life that's not Dean's. He drenches his own with the smell of baby powder, his palms with the softness of his baby's skin, his eyes with the perfect shape of her lips, her crystal laughs. Danneel is a quiet, stabilizing presence; she always knows when he gets in too deep and is able to snap him out of it with some gentle teasing or a brush of her hand on his shoulder. But it isn't necessary: Jensen is in control, life is in focus, the only reality that exists is Jensen's.

Christmas comes and goes in a whirlwind of family and friends and trips and a fast pace that's actually revitalizing.The mirrors stay quiet, reflecting only his happy face, except deep down in his eyes where a shadow remains visible. And while it might be a trick of the lights, either way, Jensen doesn't want to chase it away.

On the plane back to Vancouver for the first day of shooting, he's restless to summon Dean back. They need to talk, they need to talk _now_. Back in his apartment, he leaves his suitcase by the front door and throws his leather portfolio onto the table. It slides all the way across the polished surface, leaves a track through the thin layer of dust, and then falls on the floor with a muffled bump of soft, expensive nubuck. Inside there are two freshly printed scripts, which he forced himself not to read straight away, in the midst of feeding his little girl. He did read them, though, late into the night, when he should have slept; sleep further out of reach with each line. 

He walks through his apartment opening doors and peering into empty rooms as if Dean might be hiding in there, somewhere. He shouts Dean's name when he doesn't find him even as he realizes in the back of his mind that he's acting a little bit too erratically to be healthy. He doesn't care, doesn’t care how weird he might sound if someone were to hear him.

He flops on the couch and waits. He's tired already, the apartment is cold, and he has call time in a few hours. "C'mon, you sonofabitch," he says to the empty room, then he stands, takes off his boots and leather jacket and shirt and jeans, leaving them on the floor like a trail of pebbles to be followed all the way to the bathroom. He stands naked in front of the mirror, freezing his ass off, waiting for Dean to show up. "You coward," he says to his own face. "You think you can hide for long?"

He turns on the shower and waits for the water to get hot, waits for the bathroom to get steamy and warm his body. When it doesn't happen and the water stays icy-cold he swears, picks up his jeans from the floor and puts on his leather jacket, not bothering with a shirt. In the hall outside his apartment, there's nobody, and that's a good thing because he's bare-footed and he's sure that if someone saw him right now, they would know how out of control he is. 

The ride in the elevator down to the basement and the row of temperamental hot water heaters is too long, but it's the ride back up to his apartment that feels longer. By the time he goes back to the bathroom, his skin's covered in goose bumps; his feet and hands are ice cold. He shouldn't be surprised to find Dean stuck on the other side of the mirror, face blurred by the steam on the flat surface, but he is. He's relieved too and he can't help but smile in welcome. 

"I need a shower," he says. "You can join or stay over there." This wasn't his idea of a talk, but it feels like what he should do. He follows his instincts with Dean and that's never once served him wrong in the lifetime they've been... together? the same? Dean detaches from the mirror, water and steam coalescing into a solid form like he's the climax of some sort of magic trick or light show. Jensen waits until Dean becomes all the way real and then he gets inside the shower, lathers his legs and chest and face and hair. The hot water makes his cold feet sting until they're warm and pink.

"This soap smells like a funeral home," says Dean. He doesn't climb in the shower. 

Jensen answers with a raised middle finger, eyes closed so the shampoo won't burn his eyes.

His shower is faster than he'd like, but time's burning like a quick fuse, time's ticking away for all the things that he has to do and soon, soon he won't be able to talk anymore, his voice drowned out by Dean's. The idea itself sets his heart to jackknife once, twice.

He towels himself dry and walks to the bedroom. When he goes to open the curtains to let the pallid sun inside, Dean says, "Don't."

Jensen gets it. Dean doesn't want a spot in the sun. Dean doesn't believe he deserves it. He's made himself at home in the penumbra of his thoughts. Jensen's read the fucking scripts and he's counted Dean's lines and there are only silences where there should have been words and silent conversations that are going on inside Dean's head unnoticed, a bottle of whiskey or a mirror the only witness. 

"Come here," Dean says and he's sitting on Jensen's bed like it's his own. "You look tense."

Jensen falls onto Dean sideways with a mirthless chuckle, pushes him backward until he's laying flat. "I'm not the one forfeiting his own life," he says not without a hint of bitterness. 

Dean kisses him then, relentless and demanding until Jensen lets him, until Dean tires and melts back into the mattress and becomes loose-limbed, pliable hard muscles under Jensen. There's an aftertaste of scotch in Dean's mouth that gives Jensen a flash of amber liquid and cold glass like a memory Jensen doesn't remember he had. The kiss has the same texture of a dream; _the entire scene_ plays like a disjointed dream. Jensen was sure Dean was still wearing his clothes a moment ago, but now he's naked, skin and scars exposed, and that new mark on his forearm red like a blazing flame. His dick is hard.

"You already knew how it would go?" Jensen asks while he kisses the thin skin at the base of Dean's throat.

Dean's voice is so tired when he answers, low and gravelly like it's coming from beyond a grave, six feet under already, even further maybe. "You’re kidding me right? After all these years you’re still surprised that it'd go down like that? Has it ever worked out for us? Dude, don't tell me that you were hoping that damning myself would end in sunshine and roses." He stares at a point beyond Jensen, scratching his arm and the mark like it itches or hurts. "What's going on with you?" he continues. "I thought you were happy you got a different story to play."

Jensen doesn't know how to tell Dean that the story is always the same with Dean, scripted or not, planned or not. Yes he was hoping... He bites Dean's nipple then, harder than he intended, harder than Dean deserves. His hand grasps Dean's dick and the shock of pleasure goes straight to Jensen's head like a shot of adrenaline. "There was a time you would have fought to change things," Jensen says. "Tooth and nails. You would have fought." _If it weren't you on the damning line, you would have fought._

Dean says nothing and Jensen's glad that Dean's taking the time to think the accusation over before answering. Or maybe he's just losing himself in the upstroke of Jensen's palm on his dick, on the hard friction of their joined bodies. It's hard to say which direction Dean will take, even as he's become so predictable to Jensen by now. Dean's palm is cold on Jensen's lower back, even as his skin starts flushing red, becomes shiny with sweat. He moves slow and sinuous and with the grace he keeps hidden under the mountain of shirts and undershirts and jackets and weapons like something that's too soft and precious and would be snuffed out easily if it were exposed to the light. The orgasm builds quick and fast and surprising, and it slams into Jensen alongside the deafening rush of blood that beats in his ears. White noise loud in his brain. 

They will fuck later, if they get the time for it, but for now this takes the edge off. The scene changes abruptly, as they tend to in dreams and Jensen finds himself lying next to Dean, staring at the ceiling in the lengthening shadows. He needs answers but Dean looks content to stay still and silent, their bodies making contact at the shoulders, hips and thighs. Jensen doesn't know how to ask again, but he's got to learn how to do it because it's Dean's life he's going to play. 

"I'm not really a living creature," Dean says finally. "And you? You think you can change a script that's already been written." He moves so suddenly Jensen can't react fast enough and he's trapped under Dean, between the space of his arms and legs, a cage of flesh and bones. The kiss is a tender brush of lips. "Do you really believe you can influence the outcome? It's not up to you. It's not up to us."

It's hard to answer under the intense focus of Dean's stare. Underneath the resignation there's a challenge Jensen wants to win but his throat is dry with words he needs to say and they come out rough. "You may not be a living creature, but I am." 

Dean's puzzled, and the distraction is enough to make it easy for Jensen to twist their position so he's on top and trapping Dean inside the cage of his own arms and legs. It's just like the mirror game they always play. "I need to know why you're not fighting anymore. I need to know why you're not speaking up. And I need you to let me be your voice."

"Jensen--" It's the first time he's called him by name. An acknowledgement Jensen wasn't expecting. "You know why."

Jensen does. Nods. "Then let me fight for you." 

There isn't enough space for Jensen to fight, but he'll find a way: a twist of his lips, extra bite given to a line, the right inflection to the right word. Jensen's face can tell the story. He's an actor after all. The offer stays open-ended and unanswered and bleeds into a dreamful state they both fall into after they fuck. When Jensen's alarm clock rings, he wakes up. 

He opens the curtains to let the streetlights inside and in the dimness he remakes his bed, gets dressed. He's a bit dizzy now, but he'll soon get used to the double reality around him. Like an overexposed picture, it shows him what he sees and what Dean sees. A whip cracks against Jensen's heart and adrenaline floods his bloodstream. Now he's ready.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Tulpadean on Tumblr. Lovingly betaed by i_speak_tongue.


End file.
